The Crafting Quests
by gatheryourbreath
Summary: Non-linear[sometimes linear] Ichabbie shenanigans. Chapter 4: She is a drunken flurry and lost in the song and that stripper pole is looking like a damn good idea again...
1. The Crafting Quests

Damn it I tried not to ship this. But after last night's episode and all those damn FEELS...

The Crafting Quests

If you want something done right, you get in there and do it your damn self. This has been the creed of Liutenant Grace Abigail Mills her entire life. As a little orphan girl in and out of the system, Abbie caught on pretty quickly that she was better off being self-possessed and self-reliant than expecting or wanting anything from anyone. This same sentiment has also catapulted her career in the Sleepy Hollow PD and as a result Abbie has worked her way into a position it takes most cops dozens of years to reach. She is the embodiment of leadership and fortitude and incidentally her aptitude for autonomy has led to her intense affection for arts and DIY crafts.

Abbie's private life is just that, private, and as a result few-nearly none- of her associates are aware that the discovery of Pinterest was basically a religious experience for Abbie and she has never been able to look at life - or Mason jars- the same way. Of course, when Ichabod Crane waltzes into her life all searing poppy eyes and weird preordained soul-connection, he deems fit to include himself in Abbie's private world of Hobby Lobby trips, repurposing and upcycling whenever they aren't fighting off The Headless Douchbag and company.

It is full four months into their quest before Ichabod discovers Abbie's secret. They've just vanquished a group of run of the mill gremlins that have been terrorizing the town all week and sealed them into some weird parallel dimension thingie at the bottom of an Olympic pool at the local rec center. It is January and she's freezing her ass off and her hair is coiling into a springy, curly mess by the millisecond. They've wrapped up the day fairly early but Abbie is tired and doesn't much feel like the drive up to Corbin's.

"You mind camping on my sofa bed tonight Crane," she questions as they slide into her jeep. "I'm beat, and we can order pizza."

On his part Crane looks rather worn as well, his forehead cupped into one of his large hands, elbow propped against the window. The first time she'd allowed him to stay the night Crane had been utterly scandalized but as he grows more accustomed to this era he seems less affected.

"Pizza sounds fanastic," he agrees and shifts to meet her gaze. "Your hair…" he trails off, uncertain of whether he should continue. He is still learning to navigate the mercurial waters of Abbie's personality. She is the most complex woman Ichabod has ever known, she drinks and belches in the company of men, is seen as an equal among her peers, but bring up her petite stature or personal life and Abbie turns cross quickly.

Her scowl in expected, "I know," her usual no nonsense tone has the edge of something that sounds eerily close to a whine. She huffs and shifts the gears before starting up the car. Ichabod is silent for the duration of the trip as Abbie places two phone calls. The first to place an order for their pizza (she remembers extra olives, which Ichabod finds positively delightful) and the second to a woman named Mona to set an appointment for something called a "blowout."

When they arrive at Abbie's small, but stylish home Abbie darts into the kitchen for several Mason jars before heading into her bathroom, Ichabod busies himself by pulling out the sofa bed and, when the delivery man arrives hands him his prepaid charge card that Sleepy Hollow PD bequeathed to him a few weeks ago. Ichbod knows he will forever be indebted to Abbie for her tireless efforts to acquaint him with the day-to-day ministrations of this century and slowly, but surely he is catching up.

"Your turn," he hears the Liutenant call from the hallway before the click of her closing her bedroom door. He tries not to think about her habit of darting from her showers to her bedroom in a tiny towel, fails spectacularly and heads into the bathroom hoping to wash his brain of this madness.

Meanwhile Abbie tasks herself finishing herself with deep conditioning her hair. She curses the fact that she was not blessed with Jenny's glossy, effortless curls as she smoothed coconut oil into her much more defiant ones. She palms her widetooth comb with one hand and begins working it through, silently thanking the gods of Pinterest for her new detangling concoction that has made this task much more manageable. In total the process takes a little over twenty minutes, a far removed number from the usual hour and she decides to pull the weight of her now tamed curls into a high ballerina bun.

When Abbie walks into the living room, pondering her strange lack of appetite, she finds that Crane has not been similarly affected and a third of the pizza has been demolished and left sitting on her coffee table. Ichabod is examining her succulent terrarium intently "what a marvelous display of horticulture! How on earth did they manage to fit a tiny garden into glass bowl?"

Abbie can't help but be a little smug. "Isn't it dope?" she grins. "It's called a succulent terrarium, took me like, three days to get all the pink moss arranged how I want." She flops herself into her LaZBoy and tucks her feet under her rump, reaching into her knitting basket for her latest project.

Ichabod has lifted the glass bowl into his hands to more closely examine the arrangement of pale green succulents, moss and seashells. "Yes , it is rather…dope." He does that thing where he tastes the colloquialism again. Still studying the inside of the bowl he adds; "you have quite the green thumb Miss Mills."

Abbie scoffs and pulls the half knitted Afgan she has been working on for the past few weeks in her downtime into her lap. She's hoping to get it done by the end of the week so she can move on to upcycling this antique bookcase she snagged at a neighbors yardsale a few days ago. "Not really," she protests as she begins to work the needles and colorful yarn into a rather complex design, "those things pretty much grow themselves, I just did the arrangement."

Ichabod nods and sets the terrarium back onto the vintage side table where it was originally placed. Shuffles the magazines placed there into a more uniform stack. When he notices what she's doing he tilts his head in that curious way of his that says he's going to ask a question he has already decided the answer to.

"I would have never taken you for a woman who enjoys embroidery," he comments, motioning to her work.

Abbie's quick moving needles slow, and she purses her lips at him in that way that lets him know he has said something that displeases her. Ichabod is unaffected, as "the look" as he has come to call it, has become commonplace in their interactions. He sidles next to her recliner to examine her work, brows furrowed. "What remarkable work", he regards, tone light with surprise and approval, "I've never seen stitching so."

"Thanks" she says brusquely, "it's called an alligator stitch, this is actually my first go at it."

Ichabod nods as if he knows what this means, a little entranced by Abbie's heady, sweet scent and watching her delicate fingers work the needles and loop yarn. He smiles after a moment in that slow, smirky way of his. "You seem to possess quite the creative streak Miss Mills."

Abbie's hands cease and she quirks an eyebrow at him, her posture suddenly a tad defensive. "Yeahhh," she says slowly, carefully. Is there anything in her life that is not bared to this man? "I like making shit, okay. It relaxes me, makes a productive use of my time."

"Indeed," he says, for once not bothering to chide her for her language and the smirky smile is wider and he has this knowing gleam in his eyes. "What other creative talents do you possess?"

Abbie sighs, and puts the Afgan down to reach for a slice of pizza. "They're not really talents," she says around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni, "unless you count reading directions and instruction manuals as a skill."

Ichabod gives a slight nod, noticing for the first time her up do. It is utterly charming, piled high on her head in a slick bun, tendrils curling loosely around her cheekbones. Her wide eyes and pouty lips are even more prominent and Ichabod finds himself entranced as she munches on a second slice of pizza. He clears his throat suddenly, in hopes to clear his mind.

"What other objects have you fashioned yourself," he wants to know. One thing Crane has picked up on in this era is that, despite the tremendous technological strides, everyday ingenuity is rather depleted. Truthfully, it does not surprise him that Abbie goes against this norm, she is utterly unique.

Abbie gives him a long look before she stands to her feet. She motions to the wall on their far left to an arrangement of four black and white canvas paintings. "I did those last month," her wrist flick to just behind Ichabod's head "and I reupholstered that lamp shade."

"I must say, I am thoroughly intrigued, do you often endeavor feats of craftsmanship?"

For a moment, Abbe considers telling him it would all be too much to explain right now, and she's tired, and please stop looking at me with those puppy eyes, but she is struck suddenly by the fact that that bookcase isn't going to sand and refinish itself and Crane is endearingly helpful when he isn't being a prying bother…

And so thus begins the crafting quests of Ichabod Crane and Abigail Mills. She almost regrets her decision to let him in on her hobbies during their first trip to Hobby Lobby. Not because she doesn't enjoy his company it's just that his questions are so incessant and every answer she gives requires several cross references googled on her smartphone for the sake of accuracy. But damn it all, somewhere along the way Abbie begins to wonder how she ever crossed any projects off her to-do list without Crane's eye for detail and perfect recall for instruction.

They start off slow, Abbie shows Ichabod the basics of woodwork and how to operate a sanding machine, and when she no longer fears her life and is able to contain her giggles at the sight of Ichabod in hardware goggles they move onto bigger and better things. Their wine rack is the definition of vintage chic. And Ichabod is the definition of smug whenever he catches Abbie fawning over it.

They dig a firepit in the back of Corbin's cabin, and, unsurprisingly, smores go over extremely well with Ichabod. He is incredibly enthusiastic about their tasks and Abbie finds herself looking more and more forward to their time together. She tries to ignore the wash of feelings she has when, one day they're trying out a brown sugar face mask and Ichabod cheekily swipes a finger across her cheekbone and plops it into his mouth. Abbie knows she has created a monster when Ichabod begins to insist upon taking trips to Lowes to gather paint swatches and, one day, when they are sitting in the archives tired and ragged from yet another demon encounter he shows her plans he's sketched out in a notepad to remodel Corbin's kitchen.

Of course Abbie does nothing but support his madness, nonetheless. She has never endeavored a task as exciting as _remodeling_. ...

A/N Feedback? I'll be posting part 2 a little later this week. Am I the only one still squealing with joy over last night's episode?


	2. Girls Love Beyonce pt 1

**Disclaimer: The only characters that belong to me are Yasmin, Sara and Blair. **

**A/N: Pre-Necromancer so AU-ish. I just couldn't fight of the plot bunny that insisted that I write chocolate wasted Abbie. Enjoy!**

* * *

If there's one thing Abbie has always sucked at it is having a normal life. From her early days in a single parent household to the thoroughly emotionally scarring incident in middle school with Moloch and her subsequent bad girl teenage years, to being the youngest Lieutenant in the history of the Sleepy Hollow PD, Abbie has truthfully never had much use for the simple life. She has never felt she belonged among normal society and when Ichabod Crane comes crashing into her life she is terrified, but equally relived because finally her… apartness from everyone else finally makes sense.

But as displaced as Abbie has always felt, she truthfully has never really struggled to make friends because most people just naturally like her. She is pretty, clever and though a little closed off, warm hearted and kind. In high school she becomes best friends with a bright, funny girl named Yasmin Perkins who in many ways is the antithesis to Abbie. And, long after Abbie becomes a trouble maker and eventually reforms, and Yasmin goes away to college and begins her life Upstate, they keep in touch through emails and the occasional phone call. She is the sister Abbie- secretly- wishes Jenny and she had.

So in early February, when her friend calls her to gush over her engagement and begs her to be a bridesmaid, Abbie finds herself acquiescing despite the fact that she literally has been battling hell and all its demons. But that all slips to the back burner as Moloch's efforts dial up week by week, climaxing in a spectacular battle on the night of the Spring Equinox.

The town literally goes to hell, suspended in a parallel universe between earth and the afterlife. Abbie, Ichabod, Jenny, Irving and even Andy, fight against the forces of evil before a well-timed incantation from Katrina and a blood spell between Abbie and Ichabod seal away the Horseman and bring the town back into the proper dimension.

Their hard-fought victory is thoroughly bittersweet however, as they lose both Andy and Katrina in the process. In the weeks immediately following Katrina and Andy's demise, they cling to each other. Ichabod's grief is wild and consuming and Abbie can't shut her eyes without seeing the ache of longing and hurt in Andy's eyes before he was absolved. Eventually, Ichabod comes to terms with the fact that he will never return to his time and Abbie finds herself able to sleep through the night. But they are codependent, now more than ever.

Through avid research and collaboration they come to the conclusion that, for now, they are safe. But the Hessiens are undoubtedly planning something on All Hallows Eve and, in accordance to suggestions from Jenny, they spend a good deal of time combat training and pouring over various tomes and manuscripts in preparation.

When the lease to her dumpy apartment in the city ends, it is the natural progression that Abbie moves in with Ichabod. His ranting of impropriety aside, it is safer that way. They are vulnerable without one another. And there was simply no reason to risk kidnapping, assassination, or even worse, the stifling loneliness they felt absent of one another.

Living together is an… adjustment to put it lightly. As they slip into some semblance of normalcy they learn a myriad of things about each other, not all of them good. Ichabod could not have possibly have fathomed the extent of Abbie's temper. She throws the coffee pot at him once and then flatly refuses to speak to him for a length of three days.

Ichabod positively bristles at Abbie's impropriety. His honor could be called into question for the simple reason alone that he lives alone with a young, unmarried, _impossibly lovely_ woman. But she makes it worse by flouncing around in next to nothing ("they're just gym shorts Crane, chill") and Ichabod is left sputtering and wagging his finger about and Abbie rolling her eyes until she finds herself finally resigned to live a life- or at least the next six years- in sweatpants to save herself the annoyance of Crane's 18th century morality and red cheeks.

Yet for all their bickering, truthfully there was no one either of them would choose to have at their side. They savor the bit of peace they are allotted for the remainder of spring and summer. It almost feels normal, though they know it will not last. Abbie shares the joys of Pinterest and her secret crafting hobby, adding little touches and flourishes all around until Corbin's cabin is the definition of rustic chic.

They order Chinese food and watch terrible television. They join a gym and Abbie has the time of her life explaining various equipment uses to Ichabod and watching him nearly blackout in spin class one day. Crane puts on twenty pounds of muscle and Abbie must devote a good deal of energy to not staring. Ichabod, through some of Jenny's shadier connects, is able to obtain a social security number, an ID and passport as well a job as a professor for an online course on the Renaissance. Slowly, but surely- 18th century politesse aside- he is adjusting.

When Yasmin calls Abbie one day in late June to inform her that she will be in town soon and the venue of her wedding is the old country club and asks, "oh pretty please can we have my bridal shower at your cabin?" Abbie nearly splutters her coffee out and considers skipping town. Every fiber of her being is screaming "noooo," and to go strangle Yasmin's gossiping skank of a cousin Sara who even told the bride-to-be of the cabin in the first place.

But she finds herself stuttering, "I'll have to check with my roommate first," because Yasmin is kind of her best friend and she can hardly find it in herself to ruin her bachelorette party.

"Oh yeahhh, I heard about him," Yasmin says, not even a little slyly(yep, Abbie is definitely going to strangle that skank) "well you two get that sorted out and let me know. It won't be anything too big Absters, okay; just a few girls from school and my cousin."

"Right," Abbie agrees, "I'll text you my answer."

"Okay," Yasmin, "I'm counting on you." The girl is about as subtle as a neon sign.

"Right," Abbie repeats herself. "I'll text you my answer, "and hangs up before she gets suckered into anything else.

When she arrives home at the end of her shift she finds Crane in the living engrossed in a tattered copy of _"Great Expectations"_ and munching on popcorn. He's so wrapped up in the novel that he doesn't notice her until she comes up behind him and lightly smacks the back of arm.

"What's up?" She asks, plopping beside him.

"A great many things," he informs her shutting his book, "the price of oil, atrociously so, J.P Morgan stock, the sky."

Abbie rolls her eyes, unappreciative of his witticism. "Riight; I meant with you? What've you been doing today?"

Crane grins at her regardless, "well, I had a good deal of assignments to evaluate, so I've been mostly preoccupied by that today. But I'm afraid I've found myself procrastinating in favor of Mr. Dickens here."

Abbie nods, not sure what she is agreeing with. She isn't trying to beat around the bush per se, but she isn't all that thrilled to broach the subject of the bridal shower with Crane. It's not as if she has anything to be ashamed of, she's just not sure if she's ready to collide the worlds of her very rambunctious best friend, and Crane's 18th century reserve.

"What are you doing August 1st," she asks, knowing full well that Crane doesn't exactly have a jam-packed calendar. He pretty much does whatever she does, though occasionally, he and Irving have been going to a local tavern together.

"I believe I shall be marking more papers, provided there are no other pressing matters. As well as preparing my students for their exit exam. Have you something in mind?" He lays down the tattered novel and peers at her with curious, cerulean eyes.

"Noo," Abbie says, stretching the syllables. "Well, yeahh." More and more lately, she finds herself shifting under his ever studious gaze. "I need the cabin that day, well that night. Kind of both…I have a thing."

"A…thing," he says dubiously, brows raised, "do you mean to say a private engagement?"

"Yeah, you could call it that."

"I see," something fierce passes over Crane's face that catches Abbie off guard.

"It's nothing bad," she adds in hurry, "it's just-"

Cranes waves a dismissive hand at her, "you are quite entitled to your privacy Miss Mills. I shall make arrangements to be out that day and evening. I would not wish to intrude." He tries to say this flippantly but it comes out strangely bitter, even to his own ears.

Abbie instantly feels guilty, "I'm not trying to kick you out," she explains. "It'd probably just be weird if you were here…" she trails off.

"Yes, likely," Crane interrupts again "Again, I will endeavor to be out of the house during whichever time frame you feel necessary. I am aware that our living situation appears entirely inappropriate and would likely be ill-perceived by potential suitors. I vow that I will be of no hindrance to any potential amorous endeavors-"

"Wait, back up," it's Abbie's turn to interrupt. "Crane, I am not kicking you out of the house for a date!"

Ichabod simultaneously feels relief and surprise wash over him and likely his face, "you aren't?"

Abbie rakes her fingers through her hair in a huff, wondering why she even bothered to hide something so petty from him, "God, no. One of my girlfriends- my only girlfriend really- is coming to town for her wedding and she asked to have her bridal shower here."

"Oh- a bridal shower?" Ichabod replies, he is unsure of whether this is a good or bad thing given Abbie's earlier secrecy.

"It's like a party for bride-to-be," Abbie supplies. She has grown accustomed to answering the questions he never asks based on his inflection alone. "It's usually separate from men but if she's going non-traditional you can come. This is your home too." How she went from not wanting him to know about it at all to inviting him is beyond her.

"Oh," Crane says and reaches for his bowl of popcorn, munching thoughtfully. He is not certain how enjoyable or appropriate it would be to attend such a gathering. "Which girlfriend is this celebration for?"

Abbie dips her hand into the popcorn bowl as well, "old friend from high school, you've never met her."

Ichabod nods, considering. Abbie is very private; but throughout the tenure of their friendship Ichabod has discovered many facets of her personality. One being that Abbie doesn't tend to keep communication with those from her past.

"She must mean a great deal to you," he says, fishing, curious.

Abbie does that fascinating thing where her tongue glides over her teeth before she smiles softly. Ichabod is momentarily bewitched.

"Honestly, she's pretty much my best friend. I've known her since high school. She stuck by me even when I was going through," Abbie's hands make a wide, fluttering motion – all my shit." This is how she always refers to the darker, drug filled days of her past. "We've kept in touch. She's having her wedding at the country club, wants to have her bridal shower here; that cool?"

Ichabod has several dozen more questions, but he refrains. Abbie pretty much only shares when she is good and ready.

"Perfectly fine," he replies. "I shall endeavor to make arrangements for that evening.

Abbie gives him a grateful look and pulls out her smartphone to text her friend. "Thanks Crane."

The remainder of July whizzes by and outside of shutting down a group of teenage Satan worshippers determined to make virgin sacrifice; without much incident. August 1st arrives and Abbie is half dreading and half excited for all the things Yasmin has planned for the evening.

When Sara Perkins- Yasmin's cousin arrives two hours early to start setting up, Abbie is displeased because Ichabod is still in the house and Sara is a nosy bitch. She does her best to put on a 'I can at least tolerate you smile,' and lets Sara in the front door.

Sara is rather pretty, though not quite as lovely as her cousin. With almond shaped hazel eyes, long chestnut hair and an attractive smattering of freckles across her nose. Abbie hasn't liked her ever since Sara basically told her that Abbie wasn't good enough to be friends with her cousinand spread a nasty, high school rumor accusing Abbie of sleeping with history teacher. Consequently, Sara hasn't much cared for Abbie since the young lieutenant punched her dead in the face a week before prom. But they deal with each other for Yasmin's sake.

"Hi Abbie," Sara coos with obviously fake brightness, once she sets down two large brown paper bags. She envelops Abbie in a hug reeking of Chanel no. 5, Abbie feebly returns the gesture.

"Hey you." She has never been very good at faking her feelings. Sara is unaffected and Abbie motion to the bags. "Need help?

Sara nods, and turns back to the counter to pull out a package of pink and silver streamers. "We can start with this. I have to say Abbie I'm pretty surprised; I wasn't expecting your place to be so charming. It looks like something right out of a Home and G-"

Sara's statement is effectively cut short when Ichabod ambles into the living room looking like the most fuckable professor in the Universe. His hair is free of his usual tie and he is dressed in a grey button-up shirt, the first few buttons undone, straight legged jeans and gently worn leather boots. His carrier bag is slung over his body and he looks perplexed.

"Miss Mills, I seem to have misplaced my helmet. Tell me, have you seen it? I'm running late for my appointment with Captain Irving."

Abbie has tried to teach Crane to drive, and they are progressing, but it seems the more he learns about the modern world the less he wants to do with it. He prefers whenever at all possible the more "environmentally responsible," method of riding his bike. Goddamn 18th century hipster.

"Oh hello," Ichabod says gaily, having just noticed Sara, who is staring mouth slightly ajar. He sweeps closer to both of the women and Sara regains enough composure to stick her hand out and shake Ichabod's hand. "You must be Miss Yasmin," he continues, "it is a great pleasure to meet someone Miss Mills holds in such high esteem. I'm sure you're well aware of how difficult it is to attain her favor at all." There is teasing mirth in his tone and his eyes are shining.

Abbie blinks, he is being charming on purpose, trying to impress this girl he thinks is her best friend. Abbie would be flattered if it weren't for the fact that this isn't Yasmin and now Sara is simpering stupidly up at her partner.

"A-actually, I'm Sara," the brunette manages to get out, "Yasmin is my cousin. "

Ichabod's brows shoot up and his gaze flits to Abbie. He is well aware of the history between Sara and Abbie, having heard her bitter and slightly smug recount of the rumors and retribution.

"Ah, well just the same it is a true pleasure to meet your acquaintance," he says smoothly and removes his hand from Sara's. She is visibly disappointed by the action and Abbie has to bite back a snort.

"Your helmet is on the front porch, in wicker chair," Abbie says motioning to the door in reply to Ichabod's earlier query.

"Right then," Ichabod says and turns into the kitchen area to grab his BPA free water bottle with built in filter (he damn near refuses to leave the house without it ). "Well I'm off," he says, "I do hope you ladies enjoy the festivities. "

"We will" Abbie says at the same time Sara asks,

"When will you be getting back?"

Ichabod pauses at the doorway and Abbie shoots a fierce glare at Sara and then Ichabod, who is entirely unsure of what he has done to make her cross with him. "Miss Mills has informed me that the carousing shall end no later than 1:30 am so I believe sometime around…then.'

He trails off as Abbie s glaring even harder at him now, her body language promising righteous fury. "Right then," he says in a rush, opening the door and hurrying out, "enjoy your evening."

As soon as the door closes Sara whirls to Abbie, "how on earth do you get anything done with that British god around?"

Abbie wonders if she will be able to make it through the evening without punching this woman in the face. She tosses her frenemy the package of streamers. "Decorate. Now." She commands.

The cabin looks equal parts pretty and trashy for the bridal shower. There is an obscene amount of pink, several bottles of tequila, an arrangement of all kinds of catered finger foods and a penis cake. Abbie has a bad feeling about this. And it has a lot to do with the alarming amount of phallic shaped decorations and the banner hung across her living room that reads "Cheers Bitches."

"Everything looks great," Sara says clasping her hands together, "I've just got to go the my car to grab a few more things and –"

"Do you really think a penis cake is the best thing to serve your mother," Abbie interrupts.

"No, but mom won't be here tonight, just us bridesmaids," Sara titters before heading to her car.

Abbie can feel a migraine building behind her eyes; she has the most sneaking suspicion…

-Sara whisks back into the room, two of the bridesmaids have arrived and come in with her. Sara is holding a collapsible stripper pole in one hand and a penis shaped piñata. –

And Abbie knows she has been tricked into hosting a bachelorette party.

When Yasmin arrives twenty minutes later, dressed smartly in a tight black dress and red pumps, honey blonde hair teased big and curly. She hugs Abbie tightly and says, "thanks so much for all this bestie, you're amazing."

Abbie hugs her back because she has actually missed this ridiculous woman. She reminds her of everything about a life she will never have.

"Yeahhh," Abbie says a little furtively because she doesn't want to seem like a total bitch but, "what the hell Yas, you told me this was a bridal shower."

Yasmin looks a bit put out, "wha- oh my god Abbie that's exactly what this is."

Abbie screws her eyes shut, fighting off the oncoming migraine, "Nooo, this is a bachelorette party."

Yasmin laughs a little, and has the nerve to look at _Abbie_ like she is the crazy one "okaaay- isn't that the same thing?"

The petite lieutenant massages her fingers against her temples, wondering if it's coincidence or some weird self-flagellation that she always surrounds herself with people that she must constantly provide answers for.

"No, Yasmin. A bridal shower is a tame little get together the bride has with girlfriends and family wherein she receives gifts. A bachelorette party is a drunken hot mess usually involving strippers and shenanigans."

Yasmin's lips form a round 'o,' and her look of surprise is both genuine and exasperating, it could easily give Ichabod a run for his money.

"I guess I didn't realize the difference," Yasmin says looking at Abbie sheepishly," the gift giving thing is in a couple days, Brandon and I were going to do that together." She reaches for the short brunette's arm, "don't be mad Abbie, it'll all be over before you know it."

"I'm not mad, I just wasn't expecting to spend my night with strippers and penis cakes," Abbie heaves a long suffering sigh and makes a dismissive waving motion, purses her lips. "You know what forget it, this is your night and I'm not going to ruin it." Abbie has no idea how she's going to explain all the phallic decorations to her time-displaced and extremely modest roommate but if there's one thing she is not, it's a party pooper.

Yasmin smiles brilliantly, nose crinkling, "you really are best Abbie," she coos, linking arms with her. "Now, let's go get you changed into something sexy, we have strippers to sexually harass."

By the time Abbie has been harassed into a tight leather skinny pants and a black peplum top that really does make her rack look "a-fucking-mazing," as Yasmin put it; the other bridesmaids have arrived and Abbie has resolved that she is going to get drunk. Its only 7 'o clock and she has no idea how to get through this ordeal any other way.

After a particularly rousing game of _"Pin the Junk On the Hunk,"_ and breaking apart the penis piñata (obviously it is Abbie- who can bench 200 lbs- who accomplishes this feat). The girls are all sitting around in the living room giggling and gossiping over margaritas. Abbie ponders how she manages to feel displaced in her own living room.

"What about you Abbie?" Claire (Blair?), a bridesmaid from upstate is asking, interrupting Abbie's pining for a demon baddie to break through the doors and break up this whole debacle.

"Huh?"

"Are you seeing anyone?"

"No," she replies flatly. "I really don't have time for a relationship right now.'

"Oh come on," Sara prods, "you really aren't hitting that hottie Brit?

Abbie glares, Yasmin smirks and several of the bridesmaids perk up.

"No," Abbie says in a tone that invites no further question, "we work together, I needed a roommate, he needed somewhere to stay, he pays half the bills and minds his own damn business."

Yasmin rolls her eyes, "in translation she likes him but doesn't wanna fuck it up. Don't tease her guys," the bride-to-be says to the room, "Abbie's always been the kind of girl that takes her time. You know, taking it slow is how Brandon and I got to where we are today," she says with a wink and sip of her margarita.

There's several murmured agreements and while Abbie is grateful that to her friend for diffusing the situation, the bride-to-be's assessment of the situation is not inaccurate. More and more Abbie finds herself unsure of how to behave in relation to her rapidly developing feelings for Crane.

There is a knock at the door and several of the girls squeal with delight, Abbie downs the rest of her margarita, chomps the remainder of a penis cookie and goes to pour another drink. The strippers have arrived.

Abbie wants nothing to do with any of this and she watches with a disdainful sneer- Crane would be so proud- as Sara giggles her way to the door and 3 muscular men, dressed as a firefighter, a cop and cowboy step into her living room.

This is apparently supposed to be the highlight of the evening, being chased around and grinded on by complete strangers. And while the other girls shriek with delight and 'ooh' and 'ah.' When Abbie is lifted into the air and literally dry humped by the firefighter and now naked cowboy the only feeling she can summon is traumatization and the desire to shoot someone.

Face hot and feeling quite tipsy, Abbie retreats from the festivities. She spends the remainder of the strippers' time there in the kitchenette licking frosting off of penis and boobie cookies, texting Crane and polishing off two more margaritas.

'_are you enjoying yourself.'_ Crane wants to know. He is apparently grading papers at a 24 hour café before heading for the gym. Abbie doesn't know if it's the alcohol or the codependence but she misses him and is ready for this whole mess to be over.

'_I'm enjoying this margarita_,' she replies, just sober enough to leave out the part about the longing.

'_partaking in spirits at such an esteemed event? your delinquency never ceases to be a wonder.'_

Abbie snickers; she'd informed Crane that this would be a classy affair. She didn't even want to think about what he would say when he arrived home to a cracked open penis piñata and the condoms, candy and cock rings that were strewn about the living room. If she wasn't so tipsy she'd be worried.

"There you are," Yasmin exclaims stumbling into the kitchen. Her hair is mussed and eyes bright with intoxication. "My beautiful, beautiful bestie." The blonde wraps Abbie into a hug and holds her smartphone arm's length away to snap a picture of the two of them.

Abbie just laughs, she should probably be annoyed but she isn't. Yasmin, despite her flaws really is the sweetest, kindest person she knows. Well, besides Ichabod that is.

"Come on," Yasmin says motioning Abbie back to the living room, "The strippers are gone, and I wanna take some body shots."

* * *

**I just couldn't resist. Drunk Abbie has existed in my head canon for weeks now. Had to let her out Feedback is always appreciated :) Coming up...**

**"**

Abbie has this bad habit where she gets a little drunk and then getting drunker only seems like the next logical (and most exciting) step when it really isn't. Grabbing Yasmin's hands she half-skips into the living room, raises their linked palms into the air and jubilantly declares to the seven other, very tipsy girls in the room. "BOOODDDYYY SHOTTTSS!"


	3. Mischief Managed

**A/N: So I went to finish the rest of Girls Love Beyonce but…I don't even know what happened here.**

**If you squint hard enough there's kind of a plot.**

* * *

Of the few lessons Abbie Mills remembers from school, one is the reoccurring theme that hubris is the downfall of many a champion. She supposes that her current situation is not unlike that premise. Except, the wicked fluttering in her belly is not from fear and she may well welcome her punishment. But truth is truth and she is in this predicament because she vexed her lover into a challenge she had been oh-so-certain he would not accept although she should have known better because his obstinacy is only matched by hers.

Her relationship with Ichabod Crane has always been a duality of give and take. Where he has needed comfort she has provided, steadfast and never judging. When she has needed clarity he is there, astute and reassuring. They are perfect equals. Preordained soul connection and messy, painful pasts aside- their relationship is a natural progression borne of mutual admiration, need and love.

Their sex life however, is a struggle. Or, at least it begins that way. They have drastically opposing views on the matter. Abbie's no scarlet woman but she figured knowing someone three years and loving them silly for two, warrants being able to shag them pretty much whenever she wants. Ichabod was very Puritanical about it all. He refused to do more than give her closed mouth kisses for the first month of their courtship (seriously, Ichabod pens her sonnets and brings her flowers and everything), and actually insisted, _insisted_ that they marry for the sake of doing things "the proper, Christian way."

Of course, Abbie hears none of this. They go on stubbornly depraving one another for a few months until Abbie grudgingly accepts an engagement ring under two conditions. 1; There will be no marriage ceremony until after they are done with Apocalyptic matters because goddamn it Moloch and The Headless Douchebag are not going to bust up her bouquet tossing ceremony. Fuck that noise. And 2; they get to have sex.

They start off slow, in deference to Ichabod's sense of propriety. Abbie teaches him all about rounding the bases. Helps him unhook his first bra and teaches him that fellatio and cunnilingus are, not in fact, societal taboos, rather delightful practices that he eagerly engages in. The day they finally "go all the way," Abbie sleepily and saucily informs Ichabod after that he, "hit the ball right out of the park," and Ichabod resolves to finally dedicate himself to understanding the blasted pastime of baseball.

That doesn't mean Abbie doesn't like to tease him though. It's just so novel, there's something (other than the 21st century) that she actually knows more about than Ichabod (but lord help him, he's catching on, she suspects he's been watching porn just to get up to speed). She practically cackled at his initial reaction to seeing her in a thong and she gets a hell of a rise over his reaction to the word "pussy."

"I am truly beginning to suspect," he laments one day, massaging his long fingers into his temples, "that your true mission in this world, Miss Mills, is to give me mischief."

Abbie just smiles cheekily, running her tongue over teeth, "maybe you should spank me then, for being a naughty girl," and dissolves into laughter at his pink cheeks and embarrassment.

But Ichabod just surprises her by replying, "Perhaps I should."

Which has led her to this moment, feeling nervous as shit in her own living room. Because apparently, telling Ichabod Crane, "no you won't," is the equivalent of saying, "you damn well better."

Abbie shuffles from one foot to the other, and tugs at the hem of her nightie. "Can I come in there now," she calls to him.

Ichabod has been shut away in his room for about an hour after instructing her to wait in the living room.

"You may," he calls back. And Abbie gulps and stands to her feet, nervous. She's never even done something like this before, is suddenly regretting her decision to wear a thong, and, oh god what if he wants to tie her up and use nipple clamps next? She'd probably do it too; she loves that damn man so much.

When she reaches his bedroom door, Abbie squares her shoulders- because she is no Anastasia Steele- and steps into his room. She can't help the sigh of relief that escapes her when she sees that Ichabod dons neither whips nor chains and there's no sign of nipple rings either. Just a few tea candles lit around his room and her amazing fiancé sitting on his bed in his briefs. She's surprised to see Ichabod's already a little hard and Abbie wonders if he's been watching porn. Maybe she can weasel her way out of this whole ordeal with a blow job.

Abbie plops down next to him and gets right to it, reaching for him. Ichabod responds, eager as always, pulling her into a soulful kiss. Abbie sighs against his mouth and twines her fingers in his soft hair. His deft fingers toy with the edge of her nightie and they break apart when he slides the silky material over her head, delighted to find that she decided to forego her bra.

When Abbie's tiny digits grip his arousal Ichabod very nearly loses his resolve to discipline this devil woman. He knows that she doubts his resolve; he is always so amenable to whatever she desires that in some ways she has become the dominant one in their bedroom. And Ichabod would not mind so much, truly, if she weren't so haughty about it all.

Ichabod is aware that Abbie has more experience than he (he briefly struggled coming to terms with the fact that she has taken more lovers than he) but her widening eyes and brief flounder for a retort let him know, that in this one area he would be her first. And so when Abbie drops to her knees to suck him, he thinks, _"good god, this is marvelous, but I shall stay the course."_

Everything about blowing Ichabod gets Abbie ready to go. He is thick and velvet hard and his groans a cacophony of pleasure. She drops a pulling, wet kiss on his sack before licking her way back up to his tip and pirouetting her tongue around him. She is surprised when he winds his fingers into her hair and pulls her away from his cock to kiss her- sweep his tongue in her mouth- but pleased.

And far, far too soon he is pulling his lips away from hers. Scattering open mouthed, suckling kisses across her clavicle, neck and chest. Ichabod props himself up on one forearm and palms the weight her breasts. Abbie's lashes flutter shut when he draws a nipple into the wet cavern of his mouth.

She reaches between them, ready for him, already_throbbing_ for him…

And he swats her hand away and pulls Abbie into his lap positioning her on belly so her ass faces up, pert and inviting in his lap.

"Are you serious," Abbie says, twisting her head to look at him, confusion and desire warring on her features.

"I'm disinclined to believe anything in my countenance led you to think I meant to jest." His hands are smoothing over her ass, squeezing and gazing appreciatively.

Abbie can hardly believe that she has gotten herself into this mess and is half convinced that Ichabod will chicken out any minute now. But then his hand rises perhaps six inches away from her rear and then falls fast, pitilessly. _Smack!_ Abbie is as surprised by Ichabod's resolve as she is by the sudden heat that floods her.

He is rubbing her ass again, as if to soothe it and Abbie is blinking back the rush of tears that affronted her from the sting.

"You have given me much mischief Miss Mills," he murmurs admonishingly. "It seems only proper you be disciplined." He emphasizes this with another hard '_smack_,' and continues this pattern, rubbing her flesh and then a resounded _'smack!_'

Her ass is smarting, will likely bruise and ache tomorrow but Abbie knows that Ichabod is only using a fraction of his strength. Her fiancé may want to spank her, but she knows he doesn't want to seriously hurt her, just teach her a lesson. She's not feeling particularly repentant but she is remarkably aroused and aches in more ways one.

Before he'd staunchly resolved that he would, in fact, discipline Abbie, Ichabod had briefly considered committing the act without consummation. He mentally scoffs at his own foolishness. He had been uncertain but spanking Abbie is possibly the most arousing act he's every committed and he must reach completion if not for the simple reason that his cock is impossibly hard. His hand solidly connects with the soft, rounded flesh of her posterior once more and Ichabod can hear the trepidation in her quivering breath. His is not foolish enough to believe that Abbie is repentant, but he knows his lover is wanting.

Those long, wicked fingers pull aside the fabric of her underwear and Abbie sucks in a breath when the cool air touches her heated flesh. She is embarrassingly wet and Ichabod drags a knuckle along her, considering, chuckling quietly. "What have we here?

"A wet pussy," Abbie fires backs at him, because she knows his absolute distaste for the word and wants to unhinge him back. At least a little.

But Ichabod does not splutter or flush- well really, bent over and away from him she can't _see_ to tell- he just delivers swift retribution with another hard '_smack!'_

"F-fuck you," Abbie gasps. She means to sound unrepentant but it comes out more of mewling sound.

"Oh, I should very much like to," he returns, his voice is soft, as gentle as his palm caressing her ass. His knuckles brush against her heat again and Abbie squirms, impatient.

"Then do it," she challenges, since apparently he likes them so well and does not fail to meet them.

That dark, moisture-inducing chuckle again before he '_smacks'_, '_smacks'_ punishingly and then ghosts the offending palm over her ass and curls two fingers into her wet heat. Abbie's lips part into a wordless cry, twisting the sheets beneath her. She scrambles to breathe and can already feel the promise of her orgasm fluttering wildly in her belly, she's certain she has never been more turned on in her life.

Ichabod slides the hand that is not working Abbie's core over her spine, past her shoulders and twines them into the soft tangle of her hair. She is moaning and squirming against him and everything about her abandon is intensely arousing. He presses a suckling kiss into the delicate curve between her waist and buttocks and twists the palm that is working her under in order to swipe his thumb against her clit.

The effect is near immediate and so-very gratifying. Abbie clenches tightly around his digits and sobs out her climax, pressing her face into the mattress as her body goes slack. Ichabod relents for but a moment before he is sliding her out of his lap completely and hovering over her, one hand pressed into her waist to hold her in that position and the other guiding the girth of his cock into her wet heat.

"O-oh god," she moans, "fuck, that's good."

They have never made love like this before, the closest experimentation has been Abbie bent over onto her forearms on her knees, but never on her belly. It is beyond erotic, her plush buttocks are pressed against him in the most stimulating fashion and the position creates another level of tightness in her that has Ichabod scrambling to forestall his climax.

Abbie grasps the mattress again, wishing desperately to touch him, pushing back onto his cock. She angles her neck to look at him and he meets her in a searing kiss, stroking into her harder. When Abbie circles her hips beneath him, Ichabod tears his mouth away from hers, groaning wildly, tugging her hips to meet his thrusts.

"I'm so close," she whimpers, trembles. And she is, her orgasm feels a fingertips length away but her second climax is always so much more difficult to reach than the first-

Ichabod thrusts into her with more force than any gentleman should, but Abbie is not some delicate lady, and she has little use for gentle restraint where her climax is concerned. Ichabod reaches under her to flick her clit with one hand and brings the other down on her derriere _once_, _twice_ and-

Abbie sees stars, and tastes papaya, experiences nirvana. She cries out loudly at the onslaught of her orgasm, walls clenching wetly around her lover and Ichabod turns her face to meet his, suckling on her bottom lip when he follows her scant moments later, spilling himself into her and grunting.

He must've watched some porn, she decides, in the afterglow. Ichabod is not anything if not thorough. She doesn't even care though, because he is totally using his powers for good. Abbie yawns and curls into her lover's side, draping a leg over him in the process.

Ichabod turns to her; the perfect likeness of a man gratified, and presses a sweet, chaste kiss-given he was just spanking her not five minutes ago- to her lips, before sliding his hands around her and giving her bottom a playful sqeeze. Abbie half-heartedly glares at his self-satisfied smirk and silently resolves to give him more "mischief," in the days to follow.

* * *

**Guess who loves feedback? This girl. **


	4. Girls Love Beyonce pt 2

A/N: I'm back! And so are chocowasted!Abbie and flustered!Ichabod.

* * *

Abbie's usually too busy vanquishing demons, walking perps and solving apocalyptic mysteries with her resident time traveler to get out much. When she drinks, it's two and a half glasses of pinot and then off to bed and Netflix until she falls asleep. Her social circle largely consists of Crane, Irving and occasionally Jenny when she pops into town. And honestly she doesn't mind that, really.

But when it's all said and done, Abbie doesn't get a whole lot of girl time and she has to admit, despite her earlier reservations, she's actually enjoying herself. It's rare occasion that she cuts loose without responsibility fluttering in the back of her mind.

And so, she twines her hands into Yasmin's and half-skips into the living room, raising their linked palms into the air to jubilantly declare to the seven other, very tipsy girls in the room;

"BOOODDDYYY SHOTTTSS!"

Yasmin is gracious enough to volunteer her navel and cleavage as means for the tequila shots. And three rounds later, Abbie is precariously drunk but also having a really great time. There is music blaring and the stripper poles shines invitingly in the middle of the hallway.

It is Claire (Blair? Abbie resolves to get it right because she actually doesn't mind her so much) who takes the first swing at it. She shimmies up the pole and swings down gracefully, full of embarrassed laughter at the scattered applause and Abbie's wolf whistle.

"I took a class," she explains sheepishly as she tugs the hem of her cocktail dress down.

Abbie grins and offers her a high five. "Good shit girl, I'm gonna have to look into one of those."

"What, to impress your not boyfriend," it seems Sara's penchant for mouthing off only increases as she drinks.

Abbie just laughs good naturedly, considering the silver rod before grasping it, sauntering around a few times.

"Sara, I think we both know I'll punch you in the face. Don't fuck with me," she quips with perfect amicability.

Sara looks nervous but smartly changes the subject, "the limo will be here in a few minutes," she informs the ladies.

"Oh good," exclaims one woman, fiddling with her blackberry. "I've got to get my kid to soccer practice in the morning."

"Good luck with the hangover you're going to have tomorrow," Yasmin laughs, as she scrolls through Abbie's music collection "In the meantime though. Let's get some ass shaking music going."

Abbie is busy knocking back another shot with Claire who she has definitely decided she will be friends with in the future. Lime wedge still between her lips Abbie wiggles out of her black Steve Maddens and twirls-god she is wasted- onto the living room floor.

"Let's get it."

Abbie doesn't usually do the twerking thing. She's aware that she has a nice, shapely ass but has never been able to reconcile shaking said ass on random boners. She's too cerebral for all that. No thanks.

But, like most things she tries her hand at, she's pretty damn good at it. And anyway she's drunk and actually having a really great time and there's no creepy guys around to besottedly follow her around for the rest of the night.

"The bride wants a lap dance Abbie." Yasmin proclaims and pulls a chair from the kitchen in front of the pole. Several of the girls are cheering and dancing now. On a faraway level Abbie acknowledges she is chocolate wasted and this is ridiculous. But then "Girls Love Beyonce" warbles through the speakers and Abbie is twisting her hips sensually and sliding into her giggling friend's lap, uninhibited and jovial in the thrum of the music.

The fact that most of the attention in the room has turned to Abbie does not bother her. She is a drunken flurry and lost in the song and that stripper pole is looking like a damn good idea again. Abbie shimmies her way to the silver rod, flipping her hair and twisting her hips, "watch this," she declares over her shoulders to her audience. And she wraps both of her hands around the bottom of the pole, lifts a shapely leg in the air- a clean standing split -and jiggles.

Yasmin positively cheers and several girls actually applaud; but it is the loud clattering from the front door that grabs Abbie's attention.

Ichabod is standing in the entryway, several text books and keys strewn across the floor in front of him. The look of bewilderment on his face is unrivaled even by his initial reaction to _'The Real Housewives of New Jersey.'_  
Every eye in the room however has turned to Ichabod. Yasmin whistles low and appreciatively, rising from her chair. "Nice work Abbie," she murmurs to the Lieutenant

Crane, thankfully, seems to have gotten a hold of his bearings, though he looks for the entire world like a deer caught in the headlights. "Apologies, ladies," he announces, his voice pitched several octaves higher than the norm. "It was not my intention to intrude upon your…festivities."

Abbie has never seen Crane quite so skittish before and if she were sober she might feel bad for the bloom of scarlet across his cheeks or the fact that his cerulean eyes are darting everywhere about the room but on her. But chocolate wasted Abbie is just excited her fellow witness is home and sidles up to him, dropping to her knees to wrap him in a tight hug.

"Hey Ichabod," she says as she helps him gather up a few sheaves of paper, "I missed you."

Utterly flummoxed is likely the understatement of the millennia. The living room is scattered with contraceptives and candies and there's a tattered, phallic shaped object dangling from the ceiling. Ichabod doesn't even know how to begin to describe Abbie's bizarre- _erotic, erotic, erotic_ -performance, and now physical affection sans imminent threat of expiry?

"Miss Mills," Ichabod returns tentatively, profoundly aware of the pairs of eyes fixed on them. It takes him two heartbeats and a glance into her glimmering brown eyes before he realizes it. "You're inebriated," he says softly.

"You're cute," Abbie returns brazenly.

Ichabod barely manages to restrain a splutter and rises to his feet quickly, bringing Abbie up with him. He is well aware that Abbie becomes more verbose when she partakes in spirits as she occasionally drinks a glass of wine or two to aide her in sleeping, but she appears to be a good deal more intoxicated than her usual.

"Oh god," Abbie exclaims, seeming to remember her bearings. "I forgot my manners," she giggles and nudges Ichabod's side before dropping into a absurd (albeit charming) little curtsey. Good god, how much has she had to drink?

"Sir Ichabod, here," she announces to the women in the room, "is all about manners. So Ichabod this is Yasmin," an attractive blonde wiggles her fingers at him, "and Blair- no wait, Claire aaannd," Abbie's index finger draws a nonsensical pattern in the air, as if she is hoping to pluck something from thin air, "everyone else. Plus Sara, boo."

Ichabod smiles and gives a polite nod to the women in the room, several of whom are eyeing him quite conspiratorially.

He cannot shake the feeling of being a hound expected to perform a trick.

"I can't tell if I'm really trashed or if he's actually British," one of the women announces loudly, churlishly.

And the room dissolves into laugher and a nervous titter from Ichabod. He has counted 22 phallic shaped objects. As of late, Ichabod gives fewer pauses to understanding 21st century living. But at the moment he is mystified.

What is this devilry he has happened upon? Is it truly considered proper for these women to be so intoxicated? Do these phallic objects serve some ritualistic purpose? What was the meaning behind Abbie's scintillating gyrations? He wishes to make sense of it all but can think of no proper approach to formulate his questions.

"Perhaps I should come back later," he suggests uneasily, "I had no intention of interrupting" and he motions/flails towards the door, certain there is nothing appropriate about him being in a room full of drunken women.

Abbie huffs, a scowl tugging at her pretty features, "No," she says stretching the syllables, "you just got here."

"And we're just leaving," Yasmin quips helpfully, pulling out her vibrating and flashing phone "girls the limo is here, let's leave these two to it."

Ichabod doesn't know what makes him more uncomfortable about Yasmin; the way she phrased her latter declaration or the saucy wink she gives Abbie as she rises and gathers her bag. Ichabod feels the bloom of a flush across his face and hurriedly excuses himself to put away his knapsack, noting a 3 ft depiction of a nude eunuch with a dozen phallic bits of paper tacked haphazardly across it.

The bridesmaids gather their things and begin to filter out of the room, scooping up candy and condoms as they go. Several pause to give Abbie a hug and thank her for opening her home. Claire insists they exchange numbers and promises to email her a dance class schedule.

Even Sara stops at the threshold and pulls the petite officer into a Chanel no.5 and margarita scented hug, "girl, you better hit that," she says in a loud whisper and Abbie is in such a good mood she doesn't even think about punching her.

Yasmin is the last to shuffle to the door; she is visibly drunk as well but also smirking a little. Ichabod has returned to the living room and stands ramrod straight in the hall, eyeing the stripper pole distrustfully.

"I'll see you at the wedding right," it is a question but Yasmin manages to phrase it as a demand, a habit of Abbie's incidentally.

Ichabod's brows raise, "hitherto this moment, I wasn't aware that I was invited," he says and looks to Abbie who just smiles beguilingly at him.

"You most certainly are, there's going to be an open bar," Yasmin adds singsong. And if he weren't a gentleman Ichabod would very much like to reply that the last thing she appears to need is more alcohol.

"Yeah he'll be there," Abbie tells her friend as she pulls her into a parting hug, "Ichabod's pretty much my partner in crime."

"I beg your pardon Miss Mills," he interrupts, "but our endeavors would hardly constitute being recognized as criminal."

"How do you even deal with how adorable he is," Yasmin scoffs through a giggle.

"Masturbation and misplaced aggression," Abbie replies with a noncommittal shrug and Ichabod actually does splutter this time, face aflame.

"Miss Mills," he exclaims, but his intoxicated partner looks neither abashed nor repentant and Yasmin appears to be enjoying his discomfort.

The bride-to-be beams and wiggles her fingers at Ichabod tauntingly. "Well, I'll leave you crazy kids to it," she says opening the door, "sorry I trashed your place Abs," she apologizes indicating the mess of streamers and empty glasses in the living room.

But Abbie just shrugs again; uncharacteristically amenable.

"And sorry I got your girlfriend so drunk Ichabod," Yasmin adds coolly and exits their home.

Ichabod should very much like to defend himself and inform the scandalous woman that she has surely misread the situation but Abbie is slumped against the door with closed eyes and concern for her takes precedence.

"Are you feeling well," he wants to know, edging slightly closer. Truly he has never seen her so drunk or brazen before. There is a fluttering, nervous tension coiling in the pit of his belly, he ponders whether she intended irony or veracity in her offhand retort to her bosom friend.

Abbie lifts her head and pivots her body around, "yep," she says, swaying a little, "let- will you help me get some of this cleaned up," she commands motioning to the messy living room.

Against his better sensibilities, Ichabod decides to help her. If he is honest with himself it is because he is curious about this Abbie. He has always greatly admired her unflinching nature, to observe it amplified intrigues him. Besides, did she not entreat him to stay and assist her?

Ichabod busies himself with the task of taking down the placard that reads "Cheers Bitches," once again pondering the vulgarity of 21st century colloquialisms. In his time such vulgarity would have ended in dual or, at the very least termination of friendship. Here it is indicative of a celebration amongst women and cause for them to get churlishly drunk and perform salacious and tantalizing gyrations…

"I don't wanna do this anymore," Abbie announces petulantly after a few minutes, interrupting Ichabod's contemplation and casting away the large black trashbag she's been stuffing streamers into.

She disappears into the kitchen, dragging the bag with her and returns a few moments later to find Ichabod scrutinizing a violet cocking, dark brows furrowed.

"That goes exactly where you think it does," she jibes, balancing the half eaten penis cake in one hand and a pitcher of margarita in the other. Ichabod squeaks- actually squeaks- and drops the offending appendage as if burned.

"This is another platitude of indecorous," he grumbles as he settles next to her on the couch, taking the spoon she hands to him and jabbing it into the penis cake, wincing slightly.

"Tell me," he says chewing snappishly; the cake- despite its outrageous shape- is actually quite delicious. "Do all women christen their marital engagements in such an unseemly fashion?"

Abbie is, typically, indifferent to his barely simmering outrage. "Hey, I was just as surprised as you were. At least you weren't practically tea bagged by complete strangers."

"What on earth does,"- he gives pause to phrasing his question as Abbie tips the pitcher of spirits to her lips, gulping noisily.

"Good heavens, should you still be drinking?"

Abbie shrugs at Ichabod's dismissive shake of his head when she offers the pitcher to him and takes another swig. "Not at all," she chirps, scooting closer to Ichabod and placing the drink back on the coffee table.

He cannot stop himself from tensing a little when she rests her head against his upper arm. Their proximity is a far departure of Abbie's usual behavior but the heat of her body is arresting.

"How was your day baby cakes," she wants to know, managing to slur each and every syllable.

"Am I to assume you are referring to me," he asks, but there is no hint of snark in his tone, his minds reels as Abbie curls in closer to him.

"No, my other time travelling roommate," she retorts, drawing nonsensical patterns on Ichabod's forearm. Toying with his sanity.

He should excuse himself, send her to bed, admonish this behavior.

Abbie seems to sense his conflict and peers up at him with wide, inviting eyes. "Is this okay," she asks sliding her palms down his forearm tucking her feet under herself and curling closer still. "I just want to cuddle a little."

Ichabod understand the context of her statement, they have held one another before when anguish racked his body ad nightmare plagued her mind. But this is wholly different. She is drunk, unabashed…seductive. His throat has gone dry and his mind is swimming.

"How was the gym," Abbie wants to know, taking his deliberating silence for passivity, "break anymore rowing machines toning up the bod?"

And Ichabod parts his lips to reply but is interrupted by Abbie's lilting giggles.

"O-oh my god," she says drawing a gasping, chortling breath, "I'm going to start calling you Ichabod the bod.

Ichabod heaves a great huff of indignation, rising to his feet, grateful to recover the wits he lost in her proximity.

"I will suffer no such indignity," he piques, clearly affronted.

"What about What-a bod Ichabod," She seems to find this even more hilarious.

"Wait- wait," Abbie is clutching her sides now, rocking on the sofa in the throws of hilarity "you know how you've been doing all those squats? What about Ichabooty Crane?"

Ichabod just heaves a long suffering sigh and crosses his arms regarding his companion with his best and most British sneer.

She laughs for almost a fully minute before she stills suddenly, sitting up straight and covering her mouth with her hand.

"I gotta throw up." She says, eyes alight with panic, and rushes out of the living room to crash on her knees in front of the toilet bowl. Ichabod waits a beat and then darts after her when he hears a loud, dry retch, arriving just in time to watch Abbie stick two, slender fingers down her own throat and vomit loudly. This seems to start a chain effect as she vomits twice more, nearly hugging the toilet.

Crane kneels next to her, sweeping her hair from her face and gathering it in his palm, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

"This is so embarrassing," she whimpers unhappily when she has finished and sinks into sitting position. Ichabod folds himself beside her, still concerned, resting his back against the sink cabinet and forearm over his drawn up knees. It seems Abbie is not only a belligerent drunk, but an emotional one as well.

"No need," he replies gently. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Yeah, I need to shower," she says softly, wiping her mouth. "It'll help."

Ichabod nods, and helps Abbie up. When she sways and wraps her arms around his waist, he runs a hand through her hair.

"Come now Miss Mills, let's get you washed up."

"I need help," she mumbles, lifting her arms above her head expectantly. Ichabod feels the flush creeping over his neck, unbidden desire curl in his loins but he squashes the feeling mercilessly. Gingerly, and with great trepidation, he assists Abbie in tugging her shirt over her head and wiggling out of her too tight trousers.

He manages to keep his eyes screwed shut for the most part. But the brief flash of her taunt belly and the enticing, glittering jewel just above her navel will haunt his dreams and forever be imprinted in his perfect recall.

Ichabod determinedly faces away from her to twist on the shower before darting to the bathroom door.

"May I be of any further assistance Miss Mills?" He asks, daring a glance at her and relieved to see her wrapped in the fluffy robe.  
Abbie slides the shower curtain back and blinks determinedly in efforts to clear her doubling vision. "A hot pocket would be...the shizznizz right now."

Ichabod nods, having – tentatively- hearkened several compositions of one Snoop Dogg, he gathers her meaning and edges out of the bathroom, wishing to digest the strangeness of this evening and praying she does not fall in the shower. He gives pause in the living room to pick up the near empty pitcher of alcohol and dispose of it in the kitchen sink.

Ichabod supposes that he should feel, at least partially, grateful for Abbie's abrupt departure from him. Though he derives no pleasure from the circumstance, her behavior this evening has been undeniably titillating and he has no idea how to comport himself when she is so…open.

'_And drunk,_' he reminds himself scoldingly. But then, he has known Abbie for nearly a year now and while he has never seen her quite so inebriated he has noted her propensity for bold declarations whilst drinking.

When she threw the coffee pot at him a few months ago he slept in the archives for three nights and only returned home after she delivered him a long winded diatribe- spurned by several glasses of wine- about not treating her like a "sidekick."

In fact, all of his experiences with Abbie and alcohol have generally ended with him allowing her to say and do as she pleases, he fixing her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and listening to her carry on with whatever is bothering her most presently.

What is that phrase again, oh yes, "_in vino veritas."_

So, perhaps in everyday life Abbie does desire to run the soft pads of her fingertips along his arms and elicit gooseflesh and heart palpitations from him. It is certainly not such a terrible prospect. He cannot deny that he and Abbie have grown closer in the past months, or even that this is the first time she has caused his heart to race.

Or perhaps, he reminds himself with a grimace, these are the misinterpretations of a lonely widow eager for intimations which do not exist.

The chime of the microwave thankfully interrupts his reverie. He wraps Abbie's hotpocket in a napkin and munches on a few grapes while he allows it to cool and waits for her to finish her shower. When he hears the water stop running Ichabod fills a large glass with filtered water- always filtered (a few documentaries' education and he truly shudders to think he ever ingested tap water or even bottled water for that matter) and heads into the living room, nearly colliding with Abbie as he does so.

Abbie's hair is damp and pulled into a high ponytail. She smells like coconut, figs and everything wonderful and is eyeing the hotpocket with her lush lower lip pulled between her teeth.

"You made that…for me?"

Ichabod knows the absurdity of his heart fluttering at her doe eyes so filled with feeling for him but can't find the energy to berate himself.  
He chuckles softly, motioning her to join him next to the couch as he places the hot pocket on the coffee table next to the ice water. To her credit, the shower seems to have sobered Abbie, albeit minutely.

She only crisscrosses a bit in the walk space between the hall and the couch settling in quite close to him.  
Abbie takes a bite of the hot pocket and moans loudly, chewing. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," she declares.  
For one brief, mad moment Ichabod thinks she is speaking to the hot pocket. But then she envelops him in a hug, pressing into him, her eyes shining with tears. And in a fluid, completely unexpected motion she drapes herself across him and presses a soft kiss into the corner of his mouth before ducking her head under his chin to get another bite of hot pocket.

Ichabod is in equal measure conflicted and desperately aroused. Intellectually, he knows it is wholly inappropriate to receive such affection from such an intoxicated woman but it is Abbie and there is so little he ever denies her.

"Abbie, we mustn't." He says his voice a strangled plea, wavering much like his resolve. He has erred in keeping company with her this evening.

She is too close. Her scent too inviting. Her skin maddeningly soft and hot. Ichabod knows he must remove himself from this situation, send her to her bedchambers, admonish Abbie's brazen and drunken behavior, _something_.

Yet, the intimacy of this moment rattles him; and it is entirely likely that it will never happen again and the thought makes his chest- his _heart_ - ache.

But when Abbie tucks her face into the crook of his neck, delicate lashes fluttering against his pulse Ichabod knows he must stop this. This moment is not borne of Abbie's true manners and therefore, inadequate and inappropriate and will surely only injure her feelings- and his- when she returns to sobriety.

"Miss Mills," he manages to strangle the groan that has bubbled in his throat, to keep his voice even despite the moist-erotic- puff of her breath along the underside of his jaw. She makes no attempt to move herself.

"_Abbie_," he admonishes gently, tugging her shirt lightly. "This is wholly inappropriate on both our parts and I-"

He is interrupted by the light sound of a light, throaty snore from Abbie. Ichabod twists his neck to peer down at her. Abbie is fast asleep; one hand curled into the fabric of his jumper the other tightly clutching her hot pocket. She looks for the entire world like an angel, no traces of the unruly temptress she was but moments ago in her soft, pink pout or brush of black lashes against the apple of her cheek.

Ichabod gingerly untangles them, removing the barely eaten hot pocket from her hand before laying her across the couch. Trying and failing miserably not to ogle her loveliness. There are a thousand sentiments swirling about his brain and Ichabod knows that in the morning, they will both likely struggle in how to address this evening's events.

But there is one thing he knows with absolute certainty. Grace Abigail Mills will not be attending that marriage ceremony unaccompanied, not if there is even the faintest possibility that she will have unlimited access to alcohol.

* * *

A/N: Forgive me if you spot in errors, I'm in desperate need of a good Beta. As always, I love, love, love feedback.


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